


Our Hallowed Knight

by empires



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arkham Knights, Canonical Character Death, Court of Owls, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Past Character Death, Swords & Sorcery, Talon!Dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-14 03:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires
Summary: In a world of ruin and foul magic, Jason struggles to uphold the ideals of the Arkham Knights.





	Our Hallowed Knight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solomonara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solomonara/gifts).

> Hi Solo--I was quite taken with all of your prompts, and I hope this story does the ideas justice.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to my beta (who will remain anon until reveals). This story would not have made sense without you.

A beast of remarkable size blocked the single gateway of the abandoned shrine. It was a quatrapustal, a thing of nightmares with foul, poisonous blood coursing through its veins and four tentacles the size of mature tree trunks that carried it in and out of the gathering shadows faster than sight. And it was the only thing standing between Ser Jason and his quest.

Sword raised to counter, Jason surveyed the surroundings for signs of the next attack. There.

Jason swung quickly, ducking under a tentacle and slicing up. Dagger-length spines caught the edge of Jason’s blade sending his attacks awry. The quatrapustal howled, its chitinous face parting to reveal three rows of sharp teeth.

He hopped backwards, sword flashing to counter a strike from each limb. “Only one of us will leave with that cask,” he growled in a voice rusted from disuse. “And it will not be you.”

As if understanding Jason’s words, the quatrapustal sprung forward with a furious roar, providing Jason with an opening.

With a single sweep of his arm, he dispatched the ravenous beast. It collapsed to the ground with two shuddering thumps that sent a billow of ash into the air. He flicked his sword sending poisoned blood to the ground before wiping his blade clean.

By the time Jason worked through the enchantments surrounding the cask, the quatrapustal began to fade away, crumbling into dust that was soon buried by a never ending ashfall.

Jason studied his prize closely. It was forged from iron and etched with runes he did not recognize, and the shrine held no clues to a patron deity, at least not one Jason knew, so he could not guess it’s divine purpose. His quest was complete, but he had no answer to what it was. He’d been guided to this place by little more than a broken road and a feeling. And he wondered if following both had been the right decision.

Sighing, Jason released the last ward and picked up the cask. At his touch, the cask rattled.

“None of that,” Jason snapped, shaking the cask in retaliation. The cask, to his surprise, rattled again. He tapped the cask again, but it remained silent. “I hope you’re worth all the trouble.”

Direction meant nothing in this ruined world, but Jason turned eastward and began his return to the city.

~*~*~*~

_As you set forward as newly charged journeymen in the Order of the Arkham Knights, you will struggle and triumph as one among many and many come to form one. In those times, you must remember our creed as more than guiding words. What does it mean to serve the people of this city with the courage of day and the cunning of night? What does it mean to fight for honor, to seek truth, to demand justice from the unfair cruelties of civilization? For whom does a knight toil when there is no one to witness them?  
_

_Let your actions provide the answers to these questions. Let your works be a reminder that there is hope. _

The Keeper of the Book had spoken these words to Jason and the other young would-be knights as they ascended in rank from soldier to journeyman. Mastering the excitement while standing as a silent sentinel had been his first test of true knighthood. Jason had been excited to hear the convocation of knighthood. Excited to wear the red sigil of a journeyman with the yellow cape of a knight, and he felt that boundless energy radiate out like a beacon.

To think that Jason had met the Keeper of the Book’s solemn gaze with a grin. But those eyes twinkled for a moment, because the Keeper knew him. He had watched him grow from the spindly child dragged through the gates by a stubborn knight into a stubborn knight himself.

The Order had become Jason’s home, the teachings of Ser Bruce his sword and shield, the knights who stood beside him his brothers.

His palm had twisted around the hilt of a blade of hammered starsidian, and he had known his adventure had just begun. The sword had been a gift from Ser Bruce, who had been his preceptor as well. He wanted to ride into the world and right wrongs, slay dragons, climb towers and rescue the helpless from tyranny. And Jason had wanted to do it all at that very moment.

Young, he had thought himself ready. Foolish, he had thought himself invincible with the might of magic and the power of justice at his side. He never dreamed of a future without those very things to lend him comfort and strength. But that had been long ago, five years by marks scratched into Jason’s record book. A lifetime ago. Now, he stalked towards the dark ruins of Gotham—that once great city sprawling on the coast of the endless seas now drowning in a calamity’s curse—with nothing but his sword and a fading purpose; alone.

Alone in a city that once housed thousands. Alone under a sky that once shone a brilliant blue. Alone, but for the ash that tangled into the cloth of his cape now stained blood red. It was the only color that appeared in the blasted landscape. His world was a void of stone white, black night, and gray ash.

Ashfall dripped endlessly covering the abandoned buildings and deserted streets, and where the ash did not claim, the churning black fog swarmed. When he first awoke in this nightmare spawned by the cataclysm, Jason had thought the ash poisonous and the fog dangerous. Over time he learned that they, like everything else surrounding the ruined city, simply existed as they were. Nothing more and nothing less. The true danger lay in that which crawled out of the darkness.  


Jason adjusted the iron cask in his hands. It was not heavy, but the thing inside weighed on his mind. It called to him. The call wasn’t vocal, not whispers or words like other enchanted artifacts he’d found. Instead, Jason felt the intentions as clearly as if he heard a voice in his ear. The thing inside begged Jason to flip the clasp and open the box to have his every desire made true.

Fortunately, he’d learned to discern truth from lies at a young age. And it had been refined in his time here. The cask was filled with the latter and worth ignoring. Jason trudged on, entering the city from the old southern road. It had been a lovely view once upon a time, but the grassy dunes and shining waves had been blasted away by the same curse that created the ruined city. There was only the fog now.

The gates stood large and imposing as before. They were flanked by great statues depicting the two Amazon warriors of the south, who came to the city’s aid in a time of great crisis. The white stones were dark now, and the details found in stone guardians carved by a master’s hand had begun to wear away. The were still beautiful, their stance fierce, their armor battle worn. Their serene gazes were fixed to a place far beyond the roadway, facing a people and a place that were no longer there. It made his heavy heart ache with renewed loneliness.

Jason broke stride to salute them as should every Arkham Knight. He honored their legend, the ones who guarded the bridge so the people could cross into safety.

The cask rattled in his hands then. It would end that loathsome feeling. It would destroy the weakness inside of him. He would never be lonely again if only Jason would open the cask.

“I am not so weak as that,” Jason sneered. The box shook again then went silent at his traversal through Gotham City, though the feelings did not cease.

His footsteps carried no weight and they made no sound on the polished stone and malformed rock. He passed the old merchant quarters for the Southern Guild and the once lovely Scarlett Fountain, now dry as a bone. He walked along the clock maker’s road and passed the pavilion of sorcery that lead to the city’s magical academy.

The narrowing roads split at the next gateway. The western road led to the commoner’s homes; the eastern led to the grand roadways upon which the patrician class’ many splendored homes were built. Jason continued the northern climb through the abandoned gateways, over the fabled second bridge until he reached the modest hillside that once housed the Order of the Arkham Knights.

Once, Jason would have climbed the hundred steps to the Order’s great hall where the elder knights sat and reported the success of his mission. Instead, Jason took the lesser traveled corridor to the caves below the keep. Once, he would have been stopped by no less than twenty knights on his path and made to entreat his case and then await the blessing of his passage for the vaults contained a multitude of power treasures the Order was bound to protect. Alas, his path took little time in comparison: through the hallways with their magic still bubbling in the stone, down the winding steps that come to a rune gate that guard the Order’s heart. Ten gates, ten more empty stations, and then Jason arrived at the vault.

The vault door hung in broken pieces, exploded from the outside in, at least, Jason’s hazed memory told him so. When his feet rested on the lodestone floor signaling he could enter. More importantly, the disturbing feelings from the iron cask ceased, but Jason’s own unease rose to take its place.

Being in the presence of the vault was like walking into the middle of a tidal wave. It felt like pressure spinning in from every direction, the terror that came in the face of a power so far above you filled even the bravest heart with dread.  
The vault proper was a circular shape constructed curved stone walls layered between living metal with the magic of the city. Beyond promising doom for those who entered unlawfully, the room subdued the magic inside. For magic did live here, older and wiser than the magic it was created to contain.

Etched into the vault walls were interlocking paths of celestial sigils and the words of deep magic born from the well of creation. Above the room floated a flameless light that illuminated the spells within. Stone shelves lined the inner walls with more spellcraft built along the openings. The shelves housed a multitude of fantastic items; enchanted scrolls, spell books, rare ingredients, divine weapons, mystic charms, magical bones, undiscovered gems, and secrets. Most had been discovered through quests and other knightly adventures and returned to the vault, but Jason has added his fair share to the inventory over the years.

While no other life existed inside the curse, some managed to find their way through the calamitous enchantments cloaking the land. In his travels, Jason had met a maleficar, two necromancers, a mercenary, and a small number of adventurers with bloody intent each searching for treasure. When they inevitably tried to kill him—and they always tried to kill him— Jason would dispatch the intruders. Then he would retrieve their items himself and take it to the vault for safekeeping. Enriching the vault’s contents and keeping it safe, that was his purpose now.

If Jason looked forward, he could easily avoid the signs of disaster in this room. If he turned his back to the inner vault, he would find smoke and magical viscera coating the entryway. At his feet, a man-sized depression buckled the rock.  
Jason had awakened in that very place. Bloody, bruised, and alone. The last knight of the Order abandoned in the ruined city.

The stones were red and glowed faintly as Jason stepped close. A flicker of gold spun around the room faster than he could blink. Recognition. The magic remembered him, and this fact was always surprising. Although it would be hard pressed not to, Jason thinks, when it was his blood splashed across the walls.

Squaring his shoulders, Jason knelt before the flameless alter and placed two fingers on the floor. He breathed and the flecks of the Order’s magic puffed at his lips. It was a deep purple, majestic like the mountainous horizon, heady as the northern wines. It sparkled as he incanted his entry to the vault, and the echoes of Justice moved through him. A low hum reverberated in the room. The flame grew brighter, and the gray world bloomed with color.

“This spirit will rest in your halls protected by the Arkham Knights,” Jason whispered before rising. The final steps of his journey were quite simple. He crossed the room and searched until he found a free space among the stone holders. The iron cask shivered when he relinquished it from his hands, safe from the world outside and Jason’s mind.

Then Jason turned to the great book resting on the dais. He picked up a quill and ink and, beneath the rows of his neat script, began to pen the name and description of the item.

~*~*~*~

Between his search for the strange treasure that appeared on the landscape and his exploration of the city proper, Jason walked the once proud Halls of Justice where the Arkham Knights’ keep stood. The keep continually degraded over the five or so years since Jason woke alone in the vault. Walls blackened, stones crumbled, wood splintered. A lingering curse of the calamity that sent him here. It was neither the first or the last time that Jason wondered about the fate of his fellow knights. Did they linger here at all? Or did they perish?

Jason trotted down the stairs to the massive courtyard in the keep’s center. Dark fog swirled at the bottom of the steps. It parted at his approach, revealing a mosaic of tile and stone work that once glittered under a noonday sun, until he found the rampart steps.

As an apprentice, Jason visited the ramparts before the sun first stretched pale rays above the horizon for daily meditation. He would kneel before the emblems of Justice beheld by the Order of the Arkham Knights and search for the peace and certainty of the mind before the trials of the day. He’d often found it in the heat of the flames and the roar of the ocean. But the fires have long since died. And where the sea should spread resided a bloat of fog, massive and churning with anger.

Days like these found Jason overlooking the city, searching for some sign he’d never noticed before, some pathway he could travel that hadn’t been there before. But the time between finding something new and not became absurdly long.

It made him tired, the gray of the world, the following mist, the swaddled silence that stole away even echoes. Tired of the endless nothing and the way time had no meaning except for the tally he kept in his book of wandering days. He slept in the narrow barracks for the young knights, in his bed, a narrow thing that rattled under his weight. And when he woke, the world remained unchanged.

~*~*~*~

“_Jason. Jason. Arise you stubborn boy. Jason_!”

Jason woke with the sound of his name echoing in his ears. The voice was fainter and more wizened than ever before. Hurriedly, he rose from the bedding grabbed his sword and chest plate resting beside his bed, then raced from the room.

The vacuous fortress hallways fell behind him as he took the stairs in bounds of three and four until he reached the open-air courtyard where Ducra, Master of the All-Caste, would appear.

She waited in the courtyard’s center hunched over and clutching the twisting staff of Many Secrets in her small hand. Jason slipped through the door with a greeting ready to fly from his lips. Ducra creaked as she turned towards the door and uttered, in voice graveled by time and secrets, “Late.”

To be blunt, Ducra had been a papery stump of an old woman when he’d first met her nearly a year ago, but today she seemed especially aged. The final black of her hair had fled leaving her heavy locks pure white, and her staff seemed to be the only thing holding her upright. Ducra had been the only person who could enter the ruined city, a feat that bespoke her fearsome strength. But today that life-force seemed worrisomely small. Even the great fire of life he’d always seen inside her barely flickered, diminished.

Jason took to one knee and bowed low. “Ducra, it has been many days since you’ve visited this humble student. You must be hale to travel from your realm.”

Ducra smiled, crooked and pleased. “I am and always will be more than able to school a journeyman knight of the Order.”

Jason’s shoulder twinged in remembrance of their first meeting. “Is there a reason for you to travel across all creation to meet me, or are you bored?”

“Humph. You are testy today.”

“And I am tested every day,” Jason replied with a shrug.

Ducra sniffed disdainfully. “Late and _disrespectful_. You have been left alone for too long if you’ve forgotten how to speak to another person.” He’s spent enough time with Ducra to understand the sentiment beneath her words and riddles. He bowed his head again.

“I have been well,” he assured her. “It’s the path I’ve chosen.”

His teacher’s face studied him with gravely, the heavy creases in her face becoming more pronounced. She exhaled quietly, but what conclusion she had drawn could not be found in her expression. Finally, Ducra announced the reason for her summons and sudden appearance.

“The mercenary has returned.”

“Slade,” Jason growled the name. One of the few notable people who managed to escape the cursed landscape and Jason. He met Ducra’s white-eyed stare with promise.

“Worse, he has found a pathway into the cursed city that you’ve claimed as your own. The wellspring of magic has told me this much, and so I have come to warn you. What will you do, Ser Jason?” She had asked that same question many years ago in a bid to save Dick’s life. And like then, he answered with the same ritual tones.

“I will honor the oath given to my Order and I will live by the creed. The bounty hunter will not leave with even a stone from this land.”

Ducra extended her hand and from her fingertips spilled pure magic drawn from the wellspring of creation. It swirled over Jason’s body, the shapes of stars unfolding into sigils lined with words of power he still struggled to understand. Their light faded quickly but the hum of their power stayed, melting like honey on his tongue.

“Protection.” Ducra nodded to his right. A swirl of white light flickered beside him spinning quickly and then pulling apart. The city’s northern wall stood on the other side of the light. “And a pathway.”  
Jason moved to stand, but a quick shake of Ducra’s head arrested the motion. She appeared hesitant for a moment if the word could be applied to one shaped by the steadfastness and certainty of purpose.

“I would free you from this place if I could, Ser Knight,” she declared.

Attuned to the source of all magic, Ducra had the ability to cross through the lines that vivisected all magical existence, or so she had explained when she first appeared in the courtyard, a thin projection amid a swelling of blue and white fire. She could create a portal from this place to another for herself, but Jason could only travel within the confines of this plane. Another curse brought on by the calamity, neither could say for sure. But Jason had long before learned there was no escape from this place.

“I know,” Jason replied.

With a sweep of his hooded cloak, Jason stepped through the portal and into the empty wastes surrounding the outer city walls.

The landscape was a ruinous spread of ash and fog. No sky above, no grass wafting in the breeze, no trees reaching for a glorious sun. Only a dusty expanse broke breaks into stones and rocks that crunched soundlessly underfoot. In some areas the cavernous expanse narrowed, and he could see the sharp drop of massive stalactite dripping poisoned wash into the fog.

A ribbon of broken stone wound through here and there, rising through the mist. In some places it resembled the Grand Way of Gotham, a heralded road that guided travelers from all over the continent to the trading vessels and routes forged by the golden rod of diplomacy, but in many others, the road was built with craftsmanship Jason had not seen before. Still, though they spread in all directions, all roads rounded back to the city.

Outside the walls, Jason searched of a hint of fire and the tang of death that preceded the bounty hunter known as Slade. His body disappeared into the surrounding fog. The damp miasma that swirled and seethed and breathed like a living thing. For if the city was abandoned, the mist contained a multitude of oddities and dangers that cause great despair in Jason’s heart.

At first, he searched for signs of the city’s people, his order, and no matter how far he roamed, no matter how many monsters he had faced, he has yet to find a trace.

Locating evil had been infinitely easier. In his first year of exploration, the mist would open without warning and some fell beast crafted would attack Jason on sight. He often wondered if the people of Gotham had fallen victim to these strange creatures.  
Jason brought two flames to his fingertips and allowed them to circle freely making his presence known. If Slade sought his magical imprint—and the bounty hunter once confessed it was the simplest way to locate all manner of man and creatures—it would be easy to find. He continued walking even when he felt a puff of air on the back of his neck, heard the dark chuckle to his right. It would do little good to strike now. Slade would not be there.

He descended the hill to the remaining mason work of a roadside stand. He stopped at the center of the square. Beneath the cover of his cloak, Jason slid a hand into the opening between his shirt and armor to summon the magical All-Blade hidden within within his body. The All-Blade broke from his rib then passed through his flesh. The handle rested in his palm like a warm friend.

“Why are you here?”

The scent of blood and pain oozed through the air like a wound, signalling Slade’s presence before he spoke. “So, you were ignoring me. Injuring a man’s pride. Is this a new tactic, buzo?”

Despite himself, Jason grinned. “A mercenary has no such thing. Tell me your business before I send you to the Otherside.”

Slade’s presence, and amusement, edged closer. “It seems you have learned more about this place in my absence.”

“I’ve nothing but time and Gotham’s libraries were known to house great knowledge.”

“Oh yes, they _were_ weren’t they.” Humor dripped over Slade’s reply, a sign that he knew something Jason did not. “Perhaps you can help me then. I have misplaced something, a weapon of great power that I borrowed from an unworthy patron. Rumor has it the weapon was sent here.”

Slade’s voice echoed from the north and his footsteps from the east, and Jason struggled to locate the true source. He heard something from the east. The tender break of caked soot between heavy boot near imperceptible but there.

“Why would your patron send it here?”

“The weapon became unruly after being guided by my hand.”

“A lot of trouble for a blade.”

“Ah. But it’s not a sword, buzo. It is a pretty little bird, and I will find it.” A sudden flash of silver was met by Jason's knife

“Hakomen,” Jason whispered. The blade flashed like lightning in the dark and Slade’s sword shattered.

The mercenary spun out of reach, a sneer on his twisted lip. He reached over his shoulder and pulled another sword free. Like Slade, this sword was sharp, made to slice and rend with brutal efficiency.

“You’ve been practicing.”

“A knight’s skills can only improve under the proper guidance,” Jason mocked, bowing. “All I needed was a knowledgeable teacher.”

Slade drew a knife with his off hand and with it gave a salute. He settled into a stance that invited violence. “Let’s test those skills against a master then.”

They clashed in a rush of steel and power. Waves of ash flew outwards as they circled and struck. Slade spun on his heel and redirected his swing with a graceful shrug of the shoulder. He spun again bringing both weapons against the All-Blade. Sparks rained down like cinders. Jason found the strength to shove Slade away, but his shoulders and wrists stung. Again and again, the bounty hunter rained down heavy blows that forced Jason to dodge or take them head on. Although Jason was strong, he wouldn’t last with this display of brute strength, and they both knew it for it had been Jason who fell when last they’d met.

Sweeping his cloak out, Jason fanned more soot into the air. He quickly sketched a glyph with his free hand and the flames that circled him shot forward. The ash cloud exploded, and Slade roared as the fire consumed him. But Jason had seen this trick when they last parted. He’d only erased a construct of Slade.

Jason circled in place cautiously waiting for his foe’s reappearance. The wait was short.

“Such a strong showing from one who refused to call me master. Still, I have found more than enough weapons in the wakened lands and more than enough apprentices. This master has even picked up new tricks.” Slade’s boot stomped the ground. Orange light—the color of magic fueled by avarice—rushed from his heel forming a sigil Jason did not recognize. The ground began to shake.

Jason shuffled to keep his balance. A spout of molten blackrock shot from the ground. Another appeared to Jason’s left, so he jumped right. A mistake. A third fountain of melted rock sprung behind Jason showering him with intense heat. He gasped as pure light exploded around him. He felt the magic rise, the symbol of the All-Caste shimmered in the air like a beacon and Slade’s power slide from it like water over glass.

“The magic of the All-Caste,” Slade said, a wolf scenting something desirous. “A new secret? What else do you have hidden in that vault?”

“What do you know of the vault?” To Jason’s annoyance, Slade laughed.

“Only that it exists, protected by a lone Arkham Knight. The boy who saved the world only to deliver it to its doom.” A collar appeared in Slade’s hand. “A finer weapon will never be forged. With you and the bird, I will exact order and honor in a world that needs it.”

“You know nothing of honor!” Jason snarled, muscles coiling to attack, but another molten spout spruang up before him blocking the path.

It wasn’t the first time Jason had heard this speech, but he vowed it would be the last. He wove through the fountains of lava gathering power in his hands. The ground collapsed behind him, forcing Jason to leap away. Flame licked at his heels. The power swelled a deep gray, the line between dusk and night, the color of shadows new formed. Jason whispered a charm, and the gray of dawning justice unrolled before him. He pulled it back like a curtain and disappeared.

“More tricks?! Buzo, you astound me.” Slade flipped his long knife in his hand. It soared end over end, higher and higher, an eye-catching sight. Suddenly, Slade spun, short knives flying from his fingers in a wide arc. In the next breath, he swung his sword behind him.

Jason stepped out of the shadows in front of Slade. The All-Blade struck true, passing through the imprint of Slade’s consciousness. The stern face flinched from the pain.

“Be gone from this place, bounty hunter, and never return.” Jason twisted the knife.

Slade gave him a bloody grin. “Oh, you will be my second greatest treasure,” he whispered already fading. “If you survive this round of the game that is.”

“This game is over you basta—”

The rock beneath Jason’s feet fell away dropping him below ground.

~*~*~*~

  
Jason emerged from the mound of dirt with only a few bruises and the taste of foul cinders in his mouth. He sketched a sigil in the air with unsteady hands, but the twin flames reappeared, albeit swirling drunkenly and casting flickering light. He stood in a tunnel of some sort shaped by rough craftsmanship. The hole he’d fallen through must have collapsed on itself for he could not find an opening through the ceiling. He scoured the walls searching for some sign of where he landed. Eventually, he found a half-moon and spade tiled into a tunnel wall, the sign of the Fountainer’s Guild. They were responsible for the maze of tunnels washing the refuse away from the city. The sewer tunnels were empty, but of course Slade would be the one to drop him into a pile of shit.

Sighing, Jason followed the tunnel walls, hoping they would return him to the city proper.

He’d never had cause to visit the city’s underground, and he highly doubted his return to the place would be swift. The path sloped upwards, slowing his pace. Jason stopped after a certain number of steps to catch his breath before resuming. The remembrance of sour odor lurked at each corner. His head started to pound, and the bruises began to ache.

After a while, the tunnel curved into a steep rise signaling a way to the surface. He crested a rising slope and stopped. He reached a crossroads in the tunnel system, but what held his gaze, what caused his heart to begin to thump in his numb chest, is the presence of a glass plinth in the center. A figure rested on the flat surface. A shroud spread across the body.

It was an extraordinary sight; one Jason did not believe. “Lux ligantis,” he murmured, and his two whirling flames coalesced into a large glowing circle around which revolved the words of illumination.

When he was within steps of the glass, a ward flashed before his eyes. It took the form of a dome of pure gold ribboned with black scrollwork. It was a simple protect against intruders bound to a spell of preservation. Beneath that was the curse of slumber.

It took Jason no time to find the knot of the spells tangled around a yellow coil of fear.

Intent fueled all but the magic of creation used and protected by the All-Caste. Whoever enchanted this person had been ruled by fear, a tangled, twisted fear that desperately knotted the spells. To unravel it would take a long time.

Perhaps Jason should have considered this further, pondered this man’s sudden appearance so soon after Slade’s attack and Ducra’s declaration, but he did none of those things. Instead, Jason pulled a blade from his flesh and, with a sure slice, cut through the spell. It dissolved in a burst of dank air.

Now Jason to cross the final distance, drawn as if an errant ship to the promise of the horizon.

With the room aglow, Jason could see the man’s beauty was ethereal. He was pale as the moon over hot sands. Heavy lashes brushed his sculpted cheeks. Long, wavy hair the color of nightfall spread from like a halo from his head.  
This close he could see color flirting beneath those cheeks, a pink mouth that rested with soft arrogance. Jason reached out—stopped, hand shaking.

“You really are a fool, Jason Todd,” he muttered before touching the man. Soft skin, cool to the touch. He placed two fingers to the neck, and his breath caught when he felt the flutter of life beneath the skin. He ducked to inspect further and, remembering how a malificar and necromancer fooled him for so long, placed his hand over the man’s nose and mouth. The faintest burst of heat touched his palm.

It took all of Jason’s training not to flinch. He swallowed thickly. “Are you real? Are you truly here with me? You who appears before me like a sign from the heavens.”

The idea sent him reeling. Even Ducra, for all her welcomed presence, was merely a projection of her soul. The distance from the wellspring of creation and this cursed place was so great she could only attempt to join at the zenith of some rare confluence after months of preparation.

But now there was someone with him, be it a survivor of the calamity, a victim of the curse—it didn’t matter. After five long years, Jason has found what he truly searched for.

With great care, Jason brushed a finger over the man’s soft cheek, and wondered how long before the spell’s influence would degrade. Folk tales played through his mind, Queen Barda rescuing her magician consort from a multitude of fatal curses with the kiss of life. Spells did not work that way, Jason thought, looking away from petal soft lips.

Suddenly, the body shuddered and drew in a deep breath of air. He coughed weakly, nose wrinkling in a disarming manner. The long lashes fluttered slowly, and then parted. If Jason had not been leaning over the man, if his gaze had not been so wondrously, skeptically intent, he would have missed how the blue of the man’s eyes faded into a luminous yellow color.

The gaze was sleep-softened and confused. On impulse, Jason took his hand and squeezed gently. His heart hammered within his chest when he received a faint twitch in return.

“I am Ser Jason, a knight of the Arkham Order. I’m here to rescue you,” he said, and the man blinked at him slowly.

“Are you?” he murmured, voice soft as the velvet cloaking his body.

“Yes. You have my word as a knight that I will see you to safety.”

Those strange yellow eyes roamed over Jason’s face. “Is this a dream?”

Jason rushed to reassure him. “This isn’t a dream. I’m real and I am here with you. Do you…. Are you hurt? Can you move?” He paused, sorting through the thousands of questions crowding his mind until he found another useful one. “What is your name?”

“Knife.”

“Knife?” Jason repeated. “What do you mean? Knife is—” He paused, staring at the dagger in his hand, then hurried to placed it on the plinth. “I’m not here to hurt you. The source of the enchantments binding you was tangled. It was quicker to cut the spell than unravel it.”

The man made a wounded sound. “I fought men like you in my dreams, but I could never escape,” he took a shuddering breath. “And I dreamed for so long.”

“Come, let me show you this no dream. It might be a step above a nightmare, but. You are no longer trapped in the confines of that enchantment. Mostly,” Jason amended as he eased the man upright.

The black velvet fell away with a whisper exposing pale skin to the light. Jason’s gaze narrowed even as his cheeks heated. The man’s body was quite fit, corded muscle down the arms and broad shoulders. And though few in number, he was pitted with serious scars. Pink lines sliced over his skin as if freshly healed. A barbed bolt scarred his shoulder, a burn at his bare hip. They were the scars of a warrior, yet the face had no lines, Jason mused, no flaws.

With slow motions, the man swung his legs over the edge of the glass. The shroud slid between them to preserve his modesty. He looked towards the ceiling’s shallow dome. “Where are we?”

Jason looked away again. “Gotham.”

He swung around on Jason, the first hint of expression on his face, and those features were stormy until pain wrinkled his brow. “Impossible,” he whispered. “Gotham is no more.”

“I know. Yet we are in the belly of the city just the same.” A dead city, weathered away by ash and fog. A waiting city, for in the heart, in the vault, magic still grows.

“I think we are the only people to survive the calamity,” Jason confessed, bringing his wayward gaze back to the stranger’s. He was met with a focus that could take a man’s breath away.

He cupped his forehead and moaned, saying, “I have many questions.”

“As have I. But I don’t think my answers will be helpful. Will you answer one of mine.” Jason offered a crooked grin. “Your name, what is it?”

The man cocked his head to the side. A stray lock of black hair curled at the corner of his pink mouth, and yellow eyes stared, guileless and clear. “Talon.”

In that moment, Jason understood as he beheld Talon's stark beauty full on.

“A pretty bird,” he said, quietly.

He had found Slade’s weapon after all. In the short time he spent in Slade’s company, Jason had found the bounty hunter to be shrewd and humorous in a fashion, reminding him of the elder knights who survived. He had almost liked the man until he tried to kill him. The battle revealed Slade’s adherence to the magic of avarice, a selfish, greedful pride that took from others. This Talon must have some unique power for Slade to take an interest in him. Jason decided to be wary.

Talon’s deep groan startled Jason from his reverie. He moaned again, swaying into the crook of Jason’s arm.

“What’s wrong? Talon, are you alright?” A puff of air tickled at Jason’s neck.

“I feel weak. And my throat is parched.”

Jason immediately pulled a flask from within his hip pouch and shook the contents. “I have a tonic here. It will help replenish you.” He offered it, but Talon pushed it away then curled deeper against Jason’s body.

“The knife and now this?”

“It will help you,” Jason urges. He uncapped the tonic and took a deep gulp under a thoughtful gaze. Instantly the aches and pains throbbing along Jason’s body ceased and the hunger in his stomach disappeared.

Gently, Jason wound Talon’s hand around the flask. “Please, it will help regain your strength.” Talon fasted his lips to the spout with great reluctance and then tilted it. Talon hummed approvingly as his throat bobbed. He finished with a polite gasp. Color bled into his cheeks.

Talon looked up between veiled lashes, soft lips spreading into a gentle smile. “It’s good,” he said, and Jason stared because the color of his eyes were blue. Peerless as a summer sky.

“Talon,” he whispered. “Your eyes.”

Talon blinked and the yellow returned. “Hmm. Perhaps you should focus on my hands.” A knife pressed against Jason’s throat.

Jason glanced down at the glittering blade, cursing himself silently. That was _his_ knife.

“Where is he?”

Pretending he didn’t understand Talon’s question would be an insult to them both.

“I do not work for Slade,” Jason replied.

Talon’s expression twisted into a sneer. “Lies.”

“I do not lie,” Jason growled, affronted. The dagger pressed against his skin.

“Another lie. You claim to rescue me, but no one would be so stupid as to rescue a Talon. You claim we are in Gotham, but has been in ruins for over three-hundred years.” At this, Jason’s skin paled, but Talon continued. “You claim not to work with Slade, but I can see the trail of his magic on you. Everything you have told me has been lies. All lies. So tell me, who are you, and where is the one you call master.”

Jason clenched his fsts and fought back the mounting anger. Not at Talon, but at himself for his careless slip of the tongue.

“My name is Ser Jason Todd. I am the last remaining knight of the Order of the Arkham Knights. And though I have pursued knowledged at the feat of great masters, non shall master me.”

Talon regarded him for a long moment, and Jason saw the decision flash behind his eyes.

“Return to me,” Jason shouted. The blade dissolved as Talon twitched it against his throat. A searing pain wrapped around his rib as the All-Blade settled inside his body.

Snarling, Talon raised his hands in an alarming manner.

“No wait!” Jason protest ended in choking fit as Talon jabbed at his windpipe. Gasping for breath, he shoved Talon with both heels propelling him backwards. He’d imagined the move would buy him a moment to regroup and think, but Talon landed in a crouch and unfolded from the ground with slow menace. The dark cloth fell away revealing his nude form to Jason’s mortified gaze. Mortified because the Talon now leveled Jason’s own sheathed sword at him.

“You are a very poor assassin,” Talon mocked, a cruel smile on his lips. He gripped the sheath and tugged… and tugged again.  
“Spell-locked, because I am a very good knight,” Jason chided, relishing how quickly that cruelty melted away.  
Anger sharpened Talon’s features, coiled the muscle in his body like springs that released in a sweeping stroke of the sword.

Jason bent backwards until his shoulders touched glass. He kicked at Talon’s knee and wasn’t surprised when he easily jumped over it. The sword swung again. Jason rolled narrowly escaping the blow. The glass chimed in protest.

“Death isn’t a proper reward for saving your life,” Jason huffed, swiping his booted foot at Talon’s knee again. This time he connected, knocking his attacker off balance. The sword dropped to the ground and Talon’s fist shot at Jason with inhuman speed. He managed to twist out of the way. Talon’s fist connected with the glass in a glorious crash. The table shivered, buckled.

Jason surged forward gathering Talon into his chest and propelled them both away from the shattering glass. They landed with a thud. Jason kept them rolling even as he raised his cloak and then his hand. A red glyph appeared and from it bloomed a wall of fire that melted the exploding shards.

Instinctively, Jason caught the strike aimed at his neck. He glanced down at Talon and met his narrowed gaze with concern. “Are you alright?”

He received a knee to his groin for his trouble. Jason wheezed, shifting up to avoid another blow. Another mistake. Talon’s feet dug into Jason’s guts and then pushed until Jason tumbled over Talon’s prone body. Talon somersaulted onto his chest before Jason could blink, a furiously naked presence that locked Jason down with sharp knees to his shoulders and a hand at his throat.

“Always,” Jason gasped, turning red. “The throat.”

“Aye. You learn fast. Now tell me, where is the mercenary?” The grip loosened for Jason to answer.

“Gone. I severed his spell that allowed him into this cursed realm. Where he is in the waking world, I do not know. But you know what? You are welcome to find him once I get you out of this place. With my blessing. He deserves this shit, not me.”

“Still, you speak as if you will rescue me.” Talon leaned forward, considering him. “You are strong, Ser Jason, strong and very foolish. If what you say is true--”

“It is,” rasped Jason, tired of having his word questioned.

“--then it would stand that the mercenary has an eye on you as well. He shall not have you.”

“What? No one will have mMM?!” Soft lips muffled his protest.

Shocked, Jason stared into the glittering eyes that darkened with amusement. He tried to pull away, but could not move. It was like the very air was being sucked from his lungs. His eyes grew heavy, his limbs weak. And still Talon pressed harder. Something filled his mouth, smokey and spiced like a carnival night. It wound its way to Jason’s heart and through his head. Jason began to shake. His vision grew dark, but he would not surrender to it, he could not let it end like this. His mouth was released, and Jason gasped, choking on the black smoke falling from Talon’s lips.

Black, the magic of the end. The magic of death.

“What did you do to me?”

Talon leaned back on his haunches sucking his spell back within. When he spoke, Jason saw a trickle of light in his mouth, a ball of red fire surrounded by glittering white light. “You really know nothing of the world,” he mused. “I am a Talon, Ser Jason, a member of a parliament of assassins that extinguish life. Between my lips rests your very soul. But do not worry,” he added, while Jason gaped at him in disbelief, “It is much safer with me.”

Then Talon swallowed and the light disappeared.

Lifting his head hurt, breathing hurt, and the hands Talon pressed against his chest felt heavier than a blacksmith’s anvil, yet Talon was the one who hissed, pained.

“What?” Jason frowned when his voice escaped as a whimper.

“You will need new clothing. Lighter. Your movements would be sharper if you were not weighed down with all this.” He plucked the Order’s emblem emblazoned across Jason’s chest. “Something that does not advertise your zealotry.”

“You’re one to talk. You’re not even wearing _clothes_.” Jason’s gaze swept down without his permission, and then flitted away, a blush on his cheeks.  
Talon looked down at his body and then at Jason’s face. And the strangest thing happened. Talon laughed. Oh, it was darkly melodious and scornful, but it was the first Jason had heard in a long time.

“An innocent as well?” He hummed throatily. “There is much I have to teach you, my little wing. Commit this to memory, just as everything can be a weapon in skilled hands everything can be made to cover the flesh.”

He rose to his feet, a statue carved from relentless death, and yet Jason could not look away. With a sweeping motion, Talon snagged the shroud from the ground and threw it into the air. He stepped within its path, and the color of his magic swirled around him like a dust devil. He emerged a moment later fitted in a clinging suit of black velvet from neck to the soles of his feet. He tossed Jason’s sword behind him, and, to Jason’s chagrin, the belt he wore that was filled with utility items and spells.

“By my count this is your fourth lesson. Now rise,” Talon commanded. “If you are to prove that we are in Gotham, we must leave this place.”


End file.
